


Dark And Twisted Road

by aliitvodeson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, John being understanding and awesome, PTSD, Physical Abuse, Post Reichenbach, Rape Recovery, Sexual Abuse, abuse recovery, referenced abuse, referenced rape, reflection angst, scas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 07:51:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1461538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliitvodeson/pseuds/aliitvodeson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has always found safety in the strangest of places. He found safety in the desert, with a gun in his hand and a wound in his shoulder. He found safety in the arms of Sherlock, bound too close for happiness and too tight for freedom. He found safety in escape, in running away and hiding while the men who had made him feel alive died.<br/>And he finds safety in the countryside clinic, being plain old doctor Watson once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark And Twisted Road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cheshirecat101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecat101/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Hurricane](https://archiveofourown.org/works/974156) by [cheshirecat101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecat101/pseuds/cheshirecat101). 



> Title and lyrics from "This Dark And Twisted Road" by Abney Park, which I listened to on repeat while typing this up.
> 
> This is a sequel/continuation of Hurricane, by the awesome cheshirecat101. You might want to read that to understand this, as I can not guarantee that it makes sense without that fic.

_Little girl in your dress of snowy white_  
 _Get behind me, safe from creatures of the night_  
 _Long ago and far away, hunting my demons down_  
 _To make you a safer way, down_  
 _This dark and twisty road_

It had been a year, or close enough, since he'd last felt really happy. Really, truly happy. The sort of happy that came with that absolute lack of worry. Sure, he'd smiled since then. Even laughed. There were moments when he had been happy, of course there had been; times when he'd ridden that high of wonderful moments. And yet, through all of those moments, there had been the tiny voice in the back of his mind that had distracted him from being entirely and completely happy.

He'd left London soon after the funeral because he just couldn't stand the memories that seemed to waft around the city, hitting him when he least expected them. Because the pain wasn't buried with Sherlock's body or locked inside the flat waiting for him to return. The pain was in the cane he started using two weeks later, the Chinese restaurant he walked past, in every man in a tailored shirt.

Being outside the city was easier. They'd never traveled together, apart from the one adventure to Baskerville. There were no painful memories tied to the house he rented or the family store he shopped at. No familiar faces in the crowd and no one to ask him how he was doing. The countryside was a clean start, a breath of fresh air in both the literal and poetic sense.

A new life.

He started a clinic, every med students' dream. A simple walk in practice, serving the greater community in the little way that he could. His staff complained about the air conditioning, but John simply wore his sleeves down and collars done up. His jumpers were itchy; not out of place in a building that hovered at freezing in the dead of July.

He wished he didn't have things to hide underneath them.

He would catch with the nurses when they didn't have patients, smile when the waiting room was busy.There were colds and broken toes and cuts and football injuries. Broken bones and chipped egos and nothing, nothing, to remind him of the life he had buried in London.

He wasn't happy, but he was good.

The scars had been painfully obvious. John's skin itched in sympathy. He didn't say anything. Asked the young man to breath in and out.Tried to ignore the flinch when he held up the hammer. Averted his head from the furtive gaze.

Gave him the business card and said, "call them," in the gentlest voice he knew.

He'd stayed silent through the screaming. Rode out the shouts and the thrashing fists, the abuses and curse words. Had pursed his lips and stepped back, silently gratefully the clinic was empty of all but one young man and staff. He nodded when the man screamed about how he didn't need a shoulder to cry on.

And in the quiet moment that followed, said, "I've got them too."

It was the first time in three years he had shown anyone his arms. Rolled up the jumper and unbuttoned the cuff, holding up his arm as if it was proof that he hadn't gone completely mad. The room held only their breathing; one gentle, measured, counted out; the other racing, pounding away, demanding

Then the young man had started crying.

He listened, and talked a little, and told what he could of his own story. Indicated where the worst of the bruises had been, shown the scar on his stomach from the fight. Held his own tears in.

The student came back the next week because he needed someone to talk to. Someone who knew what he was going through and wouldn't turn him over to the authorities. Someone who understood that things wouldn't be fixed by a court order and a vacation. And if that someone was a former army doctor, then so be it. They talked. They listened.

And somewhere in the next month, he found himself closing the clinic early and walking home with his cane in his hand, brewing up two kettles of tea and holding a discussion group in his living room. Somehow word got out that there was a doctor who could talk about recovery in more than a textbook definition. The students came and left. The housewives brought biscuits. The men sulked more than they spoke.

And John, John felt halfway to happy again.

When he spoke, it was never about the process of getting out. John talked about learning to trust again. He talked about how to take things in little steps - hand holding, hugs, kisses. John told them about dealing with flashbacks and hiding the scars. He never talked about how to get out; he taught them how to live.

And he started following his own advice.

He showed up to the clinic with a short sleeve button up.

He answered questions from patients about his scars.

He went on dates.

He wrote a children's novel.

He bought the house.

He dropped the paperback off at the headstone and said his goodbye.

Two years, and he finally felt happy.

_Run little girl,_  
 _'ve got your back you're covered now_  
 _Go and run and hide yourself, you're safe._  
 _Run little girl,_  
 _'ve got your back you're covered now_  
 _Go and run and hide yourself, you're safe._

**Author's Note:**

> So about a year ago, I tried writing non-angsty fics. I failed miserably at that, ending up with a bunch of angst filled drabbles. One of them was good enough to keep, but not good enough to stand on it's own. It needed a backstory that I, at the time, was not mentally ready to write.  
> Then one of my favourite authors posted a fic and I not only went, "I have to write what happens next," but also, "that's the backstory." When I went to review this, I decided that this was good to post, but that I'm also going to make a full fic out of it as well.


End file.
